Day 32 - Saturday, March 20
Title: “LAZARUS COME FORTH”
Scripture: John 11:32-44
When Mary came where Jesus was, she saw Him, and fell at His feet, saying to Him, “Lord, if You had been here, my brother would not have died.” When Jesus therefore saw her weeping, and the Jews who came with her also weeping, He was deeply moved in spirit and was troubled, and said, “Where have you laid him?” They said to Him, “Lord, come and see.” Jesus wept. So the Jews were saying, “See how He loved him!” But some of them said, “Could not this man, who opened the eyes of the blind man, have kept this man also from dying?” So Jesus, again being deeply moved within, came to the tomb. Now it was a cave, and a stone was lying against it. Jesus said, “Remove the stone.” Martha, the sister of the deceased, said to Him, “Lord, by this time there will be a stench, for he has been dead four days.” Jesus said to her, “Did I not say to you that if you believe, you will see the glory of God?” So they removed the stone. Then Jesus raised His eyes, and said, “Father, I thank You that You have heard Me. I knew that You always hear Me; but because of the people standing around I said it, so that they may believe that You sent Me.” When He had said these things, He cried out with a loud voice, “Lazarus, come forth.” The man who had died came forth, bound hand and foot with wrappings, and his face was wrapped around with a cloth. Jesus said to them, “Unbind him, and let him go.”

Poetry:
The Raising of Lazarus
by Franz Wright

Adapted from the original notebook fragment written
by Rainer Maria Rilke in Spain in 1913.

Evidently, this was needed. Because people need
to be screamed at with proof.
But he knew his friends. Before they were
he knew them. And they knew
that he would never leave them
there, desolate. So he let his exhausted eyes close
at first glimpse of the village fringed with tall fig
trees — 
immediately he found himself in their midst:
here was Martha, sister of the dead
boy. He knew
she would not stray,
as he knew which would;
he knew that he would always find her
at his right hand,
and beside her
her sister Mary, the one
a whole world of whores
still stood in a vast circle pointing at. Yes,
all were gathered around him. And once again
he began to explain
to bewildered upturned faces
where it was he had to go, and why.
He called them “my friends.” The Logos, God’s
creating word, — the same voice that said
Let there be light.
Yet
when he opened his eyes,
he found himself standing apart.
Even the two
slowly backing away, as though
from concern for their good name.
Then he began to hear voices;
whispering
quite distinctly,
or thinking:
Lord,
if you had been here
our friend might not have died.
(At that, he slowly reached out
as though to touch a face,
and soundlessly started to cry.)
He asked them the way to the grave.
And he followed behind them,
preparing
to do what is not done
to that green silent place
where life and death are one.
By then other Brueghelian grotesques
had gathered, toothlessly sneering
across at each other and stalled
at some porpoise or pig stage
of ontogenetical horrorshow, keeping
their own furtive shadowy distances
and struggling to keep up
like packs of limping dogs;
merely to walk down this road
in broad daylight
had begun to feel illegal,
unreal, rehearsal,
test — but for what!
And the filth of desecration
sifting down over him, as a feverish outrage
rose up, contempt
at the glib ease
with which words like “living”
and “being dead”
rolled off their tongues;
and loathing flooded his body
when he hoarsely cried,
“Move the stone!”
“By now the body must stink,”
some helpfully suggested. But it was true
that the body had lain in its grave four days.
He heard the voice as if from far away,
beginning to fill with that gesture
which rose through him: no hand that heavy
had ever reached this height, shining
an instant in air. Then
all at once clenching
and cramped — the fingers
shrunk crookedly
into themselves,
and irreparably fixed there,
like a hand with scars of ghastly
slashing lacerations
and the usual deep sawing
across the wrist’s fret,
through all major nerves,
the frail hair-like nerves — 
so his hand
at the thought
all the dead might return
from that tomb
where the enormous cocoon
of the corpse was beginning to stir.
Yet nobody stood there — 
only the one young man,
pale as though bled,
stooping at the entrance
and squinting at the light,
picking at his face, loose
strips of rotting shroud.
All that he could think of
was a dark place to lie down,
and hide that wasted body.
And tears rolled up his cheek
and back into his eyes,
and then his eyes began
rolling back into his head...
Peter looked across at Jesus
with an expression that seemed to say
You did it, or What have you done?
And everyone saw
how their vague and inaccurate
life made room for his once more.

JESUS WEPT

Today’s passage is only a portion of a larger and more complex episode in Jesus’ ministry. Interestingly, John alone preserves this account—a fact all the more remarkable given the nature of what it reveals about Jesus. John prioritizes the claim that Jesus is God’s own son, but this story demonstrates the profound depth of his very human, emotional life. This vulnerable Jesus is wounded by grief, as indicated here by John’s emphatic observations that he was “deeply moved within” and “troubled.” More so, we receive the iconic two-word verse: “Jesus wept.”

But such a response makes sense; John has already told us that Jesus loved Lazarus, Martha, and Mary (11:5). Added to the agony of the scene, however, are the multiple voices of doubt and derision. We tense at the shocked desperation of Martha and Mary, and the derision of the naysayers only compounds the awkwardness and confusion. All of it serves to sharpen the acute truth of today’s opening lines from Franz Wright’s poem:

Evidently, this was needed. Because people need to be screamed at with proof.

What is the proof? Well, this gloriously strange episode will register with each of us differently, but there is much that would be lacking in our picture of Jesus without it. First, this moment compels us to accept Jesus’ full humanity in how it depicts his remarkable compassion towards us. The love and mercy demonstrated here will define him forever. Jesus can’t feign heartbreak; instead his compassion reaches, moves, and eventually descends into outright agony. It is agony at the loss of a friend, but also, it seems, grief over all death.

Second, Jesus is surrounded here by not only those who would receive his compassion but also by his constant detractors and rivals. In this way, he is also giving himself over to the gross indignities of being so misunderstood and maligned. Such is only a foretaste of the looming injustice of false accusations and a rushed execution, but along the way, he also endures the repeated rejections of his enemies. For these, he will die as well.

What’s more, testing Jesus to this end produces an astounding result. Here, we observe Jesus’ inestimable grief converge with his glorious power to raise the dead. True intentions are thus revealed: Jesus is resolved to put an end to death’s cruelty. Though it would cost him everything, he was committed even more.

Lastly, we can marvel at Jesus’ dedication to finish his mission. Lazarus would have been for Jesus a picture of where that mission was eventually headed. To witness the death of a friend and see the effect of that loss must have brought home for Jesus the reality of his own sacrifice. In the face of Lazarus’ death, how much more should we credit Christ’s resolve to endure the perils of the grave on our behalf?

We might feel the savage pain of this moment, but can we embrace the Christ who grieves with us? What a savior—who is like him? With fear and trembling, let’s hear his words afresh: “I am the resurrection and the life.”

Prayer of the Incarnation:
O God, who wonderfully created, and yet more wonderfully restored, the dignity of human nature: Grant that we may share the divine life of him who humbled himself to share our humanity, your Son Jesus Christ; who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.
--- from the Book of Common Prayer

Taylor Worley
Associate Vice President of Spiritual Life and University Ministries
Affiliate Professor of Pastoral Theology
Trinity Evangelical Divinity School
Trinity International University
Deerfield, Illinois

For more information about the artwork, music, and poetry selected for this day, we have provided resources under the “About” tab located next to the “Devotional” tab.